


End of Night

by padawanjinx



Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Abandonment, Drug Use, Historical Prejudices, Historical References, Major Character Deaths (movie cannon), Mentions of other Seven, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-movie/ missing moments, Rape/Non-con Elements, Revenge, Starvation, Suffering, Violence, broken spirit, depictions of war, possibly offensive names/words/responses, some characters being assholes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:35:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27943871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/padawanjinx/pseuds/padawanjinx
Summary: “The owl followed me here. I heard the voice.”There not just dreams. They’re shadows that haunt Goodnight Robicheaux every waking moment.Not all beginnings are magnificient
Comments: 1
Kudos: 3





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Making no money off of this. Just needed to put down thoughts to get them out of my head and free up space. A ‘western defragmentation’
> 
> Summary: “The owl followed me here. I heard the voice.” 
> 
> There not just dreams. They’re shadows that haunt Goodnight Robicheaux every waking moment. 
> 
> Rated: T (war, pain, suffering, mention non-con/rape, drug usage, and death) 
> 
> Movie cannon: major character deaths
> 
> Trigger warnings; Just about anything and everything. If any of that offends or upsets you, then don’t read. If you continue to read and are triggered, it’s your own fault for not heeding the warnings.
> 
> AN: My first and probably only foray into this particular genre. Honestly, I’m not, nor have I ever been, a western fan. However, after watching Mag 7 (against my will at first) I was absolutely hooked! I LOVED IT! Watch it all the time now. Love the characters and jokes and little subtleties that the director incorporated. Hopefully I do the movie justice and y’all don’t chase me out of the fandom. :D 
> 
> One of the things that caught my attention was Goodnight mentioning “The owl followed me here. I heard the voice.” And Billy tells him it was just a dream. My muse took that scene and ran wild… this is the chaos that developed. 
> 
> Goodnight Robicheaux and the wise accuser that has ghosted his life. 
> 
> Let me know what you think.

o-o

-o-

o-o 

A strum of crickets filled the hot, humid July air. The bass of frogs joined the natural orchestra. Fireflies danced to their music. The moon was a sliver of white upon a velvet sky. Magnolia hung heavy, its seductive perfume making one coquettish under its spell. 

As was the case with two young lovers enjoying a stroll on this particular warm Louisiana evening. 

“I will wait for you, Goodnight.” The words were spoken softly from rose petal lips flavored with mint juleps. 

Goodnight Robicheaux grinned at his flaxen haired maiden. So beautiful in the moonlight. The pale rays of the full moon highlighted her golden head, and hooded dark blue eyes. She was a vision. 

And the love of his life. 

As was custom, he had asked her father’s permission before courting her, enjoying meals with her family and chaperoned walks along the winding waterways that embroidered Louisiana’s terrain. 

Typical of southern girls, she was a peach! 

Goodnight lost his heart the moment he saw her. When she stepped out of the wagon to join her family on the platform at the supply station, he had been hit with the biggest, sharpest arrow in Cupid’s arsenal. She took his breath away. And his brains. 

He strode up to her to make introduction, (as a proper gentleman,) and proceeded to stutter like a half wit. 

Now most ladies, regardless of station or regional upbringing, would have turned away from what they assumed was a gibbering fool, but not his beautiful Annabelle. She had smiled, showing even white teeth, dazzling blue eyes, and rosy cheeks in full blossom. Graciously, she greeted him, though her two sisters hissed as angry vipers in clear disapproval. 

She introduced herself as Annabelle, and her family had relocated from Georgia as her father was a businessman hoping to expand his trade further west. 

Goodnight found his tongue, and his manners, and after a quick conversation, he approached Annabelle’s father and asked to court the young lady who had captured his heart. At first the man was adamant, given his daughter may be interested in other (more wealthy and influential) suitors, but Goodnight was not one to be easily swayed. 

Daily he stated his case. He was a hard worker, good provider, and could offer stability and comfort to a wife, despite his family having no political or economical standing. Their reputation was one of whispers and secreted visitations, his grandmother proudly carrying on the family tradition of herbal remedies and fortunetelling. “Witch” was muttered in passing, but no one dared to confront the bright blue eyed matriarch of the Robicheaux family. More than one family had been saved by the woman’s mysterious gifts of prediction, protection, and remedy. 

Reluctantly he was granted permission to court the young Annabelle. Many a days were spent under parental supervision, with picnics, walks, and dinner parties with the community socialites. 

In the past couple of months, they had progressed to moonlit walks, late night hay rides, and dances reserved for young adults without parental interference. It was a great way to explore relationships, and still maintain a sense of safety while in the company of others. 

But now, there were whispers of war. Goodnight had received word earlier that day. He was being called to fight. By honor and family reputation, he was duty bound to answer the summons. Every fiber of his being despised the crackly, yellow paper of the telegram. It was a death sentence, stamped with his name. 

It was the spur he needed though. With imminent blood and death on the horizon, he swallowed his fear and asked his beautiful Annabelle to marry him. 

The night fell silent, holding its breath to hear the fate of Goodnight Robicheaux’s heart. 

Her answer was as soft as her lips. 

“Yes.” 

Crickets played a joyous harmony. 

“When I return, we’ll have the biggest, most magnificent wedding,” Goodnight promised. 

Annabelle nodded, biting her plump lower lip. 

Goodnight held her tighter, staring into her moonlit eyes. “I will think of you every second of every day, until you are once again in my arms.” 

Diamonds sparkled upon her cheeks. 

“Come back to me, Goodnight.” 

“Yes, Ma’am,” he whispered, sealing the vow with a kiss. 

The owl sang a lover’s lullaby to the soft strings of crickets. 

o-o

-o-

o-o 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Next few chapters will deal with war and PTSD. If you are triggered by such things, read no further.
> 
> Well, no one ran me off or threatened me for dabbling in this world, so apparently I’m still welcome :D 
> 
> This whole concept started out with a short little outline. Should have taken no more than 4-5 pages. But, I’m long winded and tend to ramble and add layers and layers, and now I have an outline for at least 10 chapters… (head thunk) Might even go for more, who knows? As long as y’all wanna read, (and don’t boot me from the genre) I’ll keep indulging my muse. :D

o-o

-o-

o-o 

There was no training. No slow introduction to war. No softness of voice. No silence. No beauty. No peace. 

There was noise. Loud, booming, never ending, soul crushing _noise._

And pain. So much pain. And sorrow. Screams and blood. Oh God. _So much blood_! It stained the ground all around. 

Goodnight lay in the mud, the rains steady since dawn. The battlefield was grey, veiled by shadows and ghosts darting between black skeletal trees. It was difficult to differentiate between the battling armies, their uniforms becoming nearly identical in the rain. 

A week ago he had said goodbye to his finance and endured a three day trek across unforgiving land and unstable elements to find himself in a regiment of chaos. A mismatch of soldiers, many of whom barely adults, thrown to the front lines to provide distraction. 

Goodnight wiped the cold tears of the sky from his face. They hid his own burning tears as he reloaded, heart pounding a taboo against his ribs. 

He had never been so scared in his life! 

And yet, so... invigorated! 

In the beginning, he wanted to run and hide, but after the first firing of his weapons, it had become a fire in his veins. He didn’t need the order to charge. Something had ignited in his spirit. An unknown, unnamable thirst drove the Cajun. 

The smell of gunpowder, the sharp report of the rifle or pistol, the heady, carefree, invincible rush he felt from seeing a blue jacket in his sights. No mercy. No forgiveness. No restriction. If they wore the wrong coat, he had authorization to eliminate them, no hesitation. He rained down death and retribution to the tribal beat of his heart. 

Bodies decorated the field, many already passed into the next life. A few blood dappled grey jackets groaned or gurgled, their death throes adding to the symphony of battle. Shrill cries, bullets screaming by, the world was turning upside down and inside out. Booms and colors exploding, the ground shaking, bones rattling, a staccato of shouts as enemies clashed and warred ferociously within the pale grey veil, and Goodnight Robicheaux was a man possessed. 

He grinned through gritted teeth, took a deep steadying breath, and rose up from the ridge on which he had been hiding while reloading his rifle. Through the veil he picked out blue phantoms. His finger twitched. The rifle barked. The enemy fell to the ground. 

The next went down missing a portion of his head. A tide of blue appeared through the mist. Fire belched from their weapons, but Goodnight did not back down. He caressed the trigger, lovingly holding his rifle and coaxing death from its throat. 

The mist bloomed in flashes of red in a sea of dark colors. Coats became black under the weight of the rain. 

Goodnight dropped down, grasping bullets from the only remaining ammo can. There were only a few bullets left. He was secretly glad he didn’t have to share the precious commodity. Though he fought valiantly by the side of his fellow soldiers, most of them were lousy shots and weak willed, hence why they lay slumped around Goodnight. Two were still breathing, moaning a chorus as they flopped uselessly in the muck and mire. 

Served them right in Goodnight’s opinion. Their cowardice had cost the lives of several of their men. Only fitting they receive injury for their cowardice. Course, they’d probably claim valiance to preserve their reputation. 

Yellow bellied weaklings! 

They were a disgrace to the coat. To their fellow soldiers. Their commanders. To their families. 

They deserved a coward’s fate. 

Goodnight sneered at them. 

“Lot of help you are!” he growled, reloaded and reinvigorated. He rose, barely taking aim before squeezing the trigger. 

A distant horn sounded. There came the pounding of hooves. The stampede of soldier feet, drumming over the countryside. The noise rose as a grand crescendo, drowning out the murmur of blue soldiers now vastly outnumbered. With so many fast moving pieces across the field, Goodnight lowered his rifle and watched with pride as grey suited soldiers mowed down the enemy as ripen grain for the harvest. 

It took less than ten minutes for victory to be declared. There were no more surviving blue coats. The battle had been won. 

The heavy veil granted victory to the grey coats. 

_They won_. The enemy was defeated. 

Goodnight rolled to his back, staring up at the pearly heavens continuing to cry. 

He smiled. 

An early evening owl serenaded the victors. 

o-o

-o-

o-o 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapters are going to get longer and more in depth. 
> 
> Still want me to continue?


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AN: Shame on me, I know. Update too long in coming. All I can do is apologize and hope my readers continue to stick with me. I have some ideas I’m tossing around and my muse is fickle. When the spring rains come, she’ll be more affable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Goody is winding himself up for what he believes to be his true calling. His journey is only just beginning, but don’t fret, I know how much torture I want to put him through before I give him a reprieve.

o-o

-o-

o-o 

Goodnight stood at attention with a 100 men, all dressed in tatty, stained, ill fitting grey coats. The last campaign had been brutal. Days bled into weeks with both sides gaining and losing ground until after nearly three weeks, the battle was declared a stalemate. 

Soldiers returned to their respective sides, broken, battered, bloodied, and suffering from numerous afflictions, most of which attributed to poor hygiene and lack of food. 

Goodnight’s own uniform was loose upon his already lean frame. He’d lost at least twenty pounds. Supplies had been scarce for the better part of two weeks, but Goodnight had suffered the worst. 

Having proven himself by eliminating long range targets, he had been assigned a position above the battlefield, high in a tree, heavily camouflaged, where he was to stay until further orders. 

Sadly, the enemy advanced, unknowingly camping at the base of his tree, forcing him to remain perfectly silent and motionless for several days. 

Isolated from his regiment, he endured endless days and nights stuck in the crotch of the tree, relying on bark, leaves, (and the occasional bug) and morning dew to survive. When the sea of grey moved below, overrunning the enemy camp, he wept for joy, but it was short lived. 

Supplies were low. Priority was given to those with more battle field experience, commanding officers and important soldiers. Lowly soldiers of the front line were not granted much food, as their inevitable death would mean a waste of limited resources. 

Sadly, Goodnight also fell into such a category. 

Ordered to remain in place, he suffered another week of near starvation, exposure, and numb, unresponsive body as the grays slowly advanced, forcing the Union devils into further retreat. The cramped area didn’t afford room to stretch his limbs, and he was forbidden to leave his post in case the distant enemy had a spyglass trained onto their camp. 

He had to stay hidden and always on alert. 

When victory was finally sounded, Goodnight could barely move. Weak from hunger, fatigue, and sickness from being exposed to unforgiving rain, several men had to climb the tree and extract the sharpshooter who lacked the strength to stand, let alone lower himself down on a rope. 

Three day travel to their next battle field was the only reprieve he was given to break his fever and regain strength. Thankfully, he had a strong bloodline, a blessing of what many would deem ‘mystical.’ 

His grandmother was notorious for her predictions and many of the New Orleans elders sought her advice, and swore by her spiritual abilities. 

The woman was a legend. 

All Goodnight’s life she proclaimed his impending greatness. The wonderful things he would do. The honor he would bring to the family. The great and glorious accolades he would receive. When he received the summons to war, he knew it was his destiny to earn glory upon the field of battle. 

When he returned home from the war, if he survived, he would be celebrated for his role as a soldier. This was the future his grandmother predicted since before his birth. He would make his family proud. 

Which is why he stood in perfect formation. Rigid posture, staring straight ahead, holding his head high while his commanding officer marched the line barking orders. Goodnight displaying every attribute of a veteran soldier. 

“I hear you are quite the shot, son?” the burly, heavily mustached commander said, his ruddy face a few inches from Goodnight’s. 

“Sir!” Goodnight snapped, somehow making his posture even more severe. 

The commander eyed the much thinner man critically. 

“I guess some kind of use has to be behind those skinny arms and legs,” he said, offering a dark chuckle that made skin crawl. “Not like a bony man can hold his own against real soldiers when it comes to fighting bare handed.” 

Goodnight’s jaw clenched. He pursed his lips into a thin line to keep from speaking out of turn. 

He wasn’t a weakling. From far from it. His thinner frame was only due to hardship and lack of time to recover from extended hunger. 

The commander rocked back on highly polished boots. It was doubtful such boots had seen real combat, nor knew the hardship of what front line soldiers endured for weeks on end. 

Given the commander’s girth and ruddy countenance, he was a well fed and pampered general who most likely earned his reputation by money and influence. 

“Petite boys like you need to be toughened up,” the commander continued, giving Goodnight another disdainful once over. “Learn from the real men out there taking bullets and charging the enemy head on.” 

Goodnight kept statuesque. He knew his worth. He had proved it the first skirmish when he saved three fellow grays, one of whom he carried on his shoulders miles to their camp. 

Battle required a certain taste, and Goodnight had developed quite the palate. He was a connoisseur of war and death. As most cringed from the fight or had nightmares of death, Goodnight thrived. Excelled. Craved it. It set his bayou blood on fire! 

“Captain Lambeaux?” the commander yelled. 

A man stepped forward. 

“What do you say we toughen up this little man?” the commander asked, narrowed eyes staring directly into Goodnight’s soul. 

“I know just wha’ to do wit ‘im,” Lambeaux said in a voice like gravel and glass. He snickered. “Coupla weeks, he be a real man.” 

Goodnight wanted to argue he was a real man. He had proven himself worthy of the jacket. Many times. He wanted to state his impressive record, but mouthing off to a commanding officer was a sure fire way to get court marshaled and executed by firing squad. 

The grays didn’t mess around with insubordination. It was ruled by an iron fist and leather whip. You were beaten and broken, and made new again. If you survived. 

And Goodnight was a survivor. 

Lambeaux strode forward, scrutinizing Goodnight with a keen eye. His face was gnarled and grizzled, complete with sparse, scratchy beard and deep pock marks. His eyes were heavily shielded by the substantial brow that cut across his forehead in a solid line. 

“I ‘ear you’re a good shot,” he drawled in a tortured southern accent. 

“Yes, sir,” Goodnight confirmed again. It felt good to offer confirmation after the public dress down from the commander in front of others. Humiliation was a difficult wound to bear, especially when one was cursed with pride. 

Lambeaux clucked his tongue. “Guess we see how good you are.” 

Goodnight’s heart skipped a beat. 

Lambeaux was notorious for being one of the best captains of the field. His team had the highest success rate in the confederacy. To be offered a position amongst such elite soldiers was an honor. 

“You better be as good as you claim,” Lambeaux growled. “Else, I shoot you m’self, boy.” 

Goodnight offered a single nod in answer. It took every bit of his self control to not correct the man about who was the one actually boasting about his sharp shooting abilities. But he wanted to be accepted, both as a soldier and as a man into the elite grays. 

Exercising some hidden reserve of self restraint, Goodnight acknowledged his new commander. Soon, Goodnight Robicheaux would take his place with the elite. His name whispered in awe and hushed moments of solace. Others would take comfort in the knowledge his aim is true, their lives protected by his keen sight. He will be their guardian, removing threats from their path so they may claim victory. 

His name would go down in history. 

Oh, to be a legend! There was no greater honor! Fame and fortune were within his grasp! 

In the distance, by the light of a full pale moon, the owl spoke in warning. 

o-o

-o-

o-o

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, an owl will end each chapter.
> 
> I rarely read stories on the site as I don’t want outside influences to my own work, so I don’t know if this kind of thing has been done before. If so, I apologize. As I said, I don’t read what others write so I’m out of the fandom loop in that respect. And this is my first stretch of the muse for this genre. 
> 
> Feedback is appreciated, but flames will be deleted. I write for honest fans and delve into the more grittier, more mature aspect of human nature and situations. I’m also the queen of cliffhangers and plot twists… so you’ve been warned. 
> 
> Not all beginnings are magnificent


End file.
